Back in the throne room, just outside the Small Council chambers…
Eddard Stark was preparing to head into his chambers when Grand Maester Pycelle handed him a scroll, telling him a raven arrived from Winterfell this morning.
He had a momentary look on his face when Petyr Baelish appeared in front of him.
“Good news?
Perhaps you’d like to share it with your wife.”
“What game are you playing, Littlefinger?” Eddard asks, clearly in no mood.
“My wife is in Winterfell.”
“Is she?” Petyr’s grey-green eyes glittered with amusement, motioning the Hand of the King to follow him.
Eddard followed warily, wondering if this day would ever end.
He had no taste for these intrigues, but he was beginning to realize that they were meat and mead to a man like Littlefinger.
Finally, Baelish drew rein in front of a ramshackle building, three stories, timbered, its windows bright with lamplight in the gathering dusk.
The sounds of music and raucous laughter drifted out and floated over the water.
Beside the door swung an ornate oil lamp on a heavy chain, with a globe of leaded red glass.
Petyr had led Eddard to the entrance of his brothel in one of the city’s busiest streets.
“I thought that she’d be safest in here,” Petyr explains.
“One of several such establishments I own.”
*SLAM!*
It was the final insult.
Eddard, not so keen on the idea, spun Littlefinger around and slammed him against the wall, his hand wrapping tightly around Petyr’s throat.
“You’re a funny man, hmm?” Eddard said in a cold fury as he strangled Petyr.
“A very funny man.”
“Ned!” an urgent voice called out to him from above.
Eddard looked up and noticed Catelyn looking down at him from a window; then, suddenly, the recognition came to him.
He was hopelessly confused, but released his grip on Littlefinger’s throat and made his way inside.
“The Starks…” Petyr coughed, adjusting his collar.
“Quick tempers, slow minds.”
They went inside, through a crowded common room where a fat woman was singing bawdy songs while pretty young girls in linen shifts and wisps of colored silk pressed themselves against their lovers and dandled on their laps.
No one paid Ned the least bit of attention.
Inside, Catelyn was waiting.
She cried out when she saw him, ran to him, and embraced him fiercely.
“I feared you’d never come,” Catelyn hugged Eddard.
“Petyr has been bringing me reports.
He told me of your troubles with Arya and the young prince.
How are my girls?”
“Both in mourning, and full of anger,” he told her.
“Cat, I don’t understand.
What are you doing in King’s Landing?
What’s happened?
You’ve been hurt.
Gods.
Those are deep cuts… a gash from a sword or… how did this happen?” Eddard asked his wife.
Catelyn slid a dagger out from under her cloak and placed it in his hand.
“We have proof.
We have the blade.”
“Which Lord Tyrion will say was stolen from him,” Petyr suggested.
“The only man who could say otherwise has no throat, thanks to your boy’s wolf.”
“Petyr has promised to help us find the truth,” Catelyn said.
“He’s like a little brother to me.
He would never betray my trust.”
That was not news that Eddard Stark welcomed, but it was true enough that they needed help, and Littlefinger had been almost a brother to Cat once.
It would not be the first time that Ned had been forced to make common cause with a man he despised.
“I’ll try to keep you alive for her sake,” Petyr said.
“A fool’s task, admittedly, but I’ve never been able to refuse your wife anything.”
Catelyn went to Petyr and took his hands in her own.
“I won’t forget this.
You’re a true friend.”
Petyr smiled.
“Don’t tell anyone.
I have a reputation to maintain.”
Not long after, Eddard saw Catelyn out to the road – promising to find proof of the Lannisters’ involvement with the attempt on Bran’s life.
If he found it, he’d present his findings to Robert.
Eddard hoped that the King was still the man he once knew, but something in his gut also warned him that there would be at least two people in King’s Landing who would not take kindly to such accusations…
Even if they did have merit.
At the throne room of the Red Keep in King’s Landing…
Sansa Stark was walking with Septa Mordane, the septa instructing the girl on the history of the Iron Throne and what her duties would soon entail once she became Daveth’s queen.
“Someday your husband will sit there and you will sit by his side,” the septa explained.
“And one day, before too long, you will present your son to the court.
All the lords of Westeros will gather here to see the little prince…”
Sansa remained unconvinced, a part of her still being mad at her father for seemingly carrying out King Robert’s order on the Kingsroad.
“What if I have a girl?” she asked.
Septa Mordane looked at Sansa briefly.
“Gods be good, you’ll have boys and girls.
And plenty of them.”
“What if I only have girls?”
“I wouldn’t worry about that.”
Sansa looked at Septa Mordane incredulously.
“Jeyne Poole’s mother had five children, all of them girls.”
“Yes, but it’s highly unlikely.”
“But what if?”
Mordane sighed, weary of this constant poking.
“If you only had girls,” she said quietly, “I suppose the throne would pass to Prince Daveth’s younger brother, Prince Joffrey.”
“And everyone would hate me.”
“Nobody could ever hate you.”
“Joffrey does.
Daveth might…”
The septuagenarian shook her head.
“Nonsense.
Why would you say such a thing?
The Crown Prince would never hate you.” No doubt.
Sansa still hung onto the incident.
“Are you still thinking about that business with the wolves?
I’ve told you a hundred times… A direwolf is not…”
“Please shut up about it,” Sansa rudely silenced her.
Mordane was stunned; Sansa never spoke to her that way before.
Feeling the need to just walk away, the septa merely continued their history lessons as Sansa tried to walk away.
“Do you remember your lessons?” she asked.
“Who built the Iron Throne?”
“Aegon the Conqueror,” Sansa answered.
“And who built the Red Keep?”
“Maegor the Cruel.”
“And how many years did it take to build—”
“My grandfather and uncle were murdered here, weren’t they?”
The chain of events that started Robert’s Rebellion began in the Great Hall of the Red Keep.
Sansa’s uncle, Brandon Stark, rode to King’s Landing with several of his friends to demand justice when he heard that Prince Rhaegar Targaryen had abducted his sister Lyanna Stark.
Upon arriving at the Red Keep, many vaguely remembered Brandon shouting “Come out and die!” clearly intended for Rhaegar, who was not present – but King Aerys II Targaryen was.
The Mad King had Brandon and his companions arrested on charges of treason for conspiring against the life of the Crown Prince.
When Aerys called upon the Warden of the North, Lord Rickard Stark, to come to the capital to answer for his eldest son’s crimes, Rickard complied – only to be arrested for treason as well.
When Rickard demanded a trial by combat, Aerys chose wildfire as the champion of House Targaryen and had Rickard strapped up and burned the Lord of Winterfell alive.
Brandon was strapped to a torture device around his neck and strangled himself to death trying to save his father.
“They were killed on the orders of King Aerys, yes.”
“The Mad King,” Sansa replied.
“Commonly known as the Mad King,” Mordane corrected.
“Why were they killed?”
“You should speak to your father about these matters.”
“I don’t want to speak to my father, ever.”
“You will find it in your heart to forgive your father.”
“No, I won’t,” Sansa stubbornly replied before making her way to her chambers in the Tower of the Hand.
At a Dothraki campsite…
On the far side of the Great Grass Sea of the Dothraki, tents had been erected by the shore of a spring-fed pool.
Soon there would be laughter, when the men of her khas told the story of what had happened in the grasses today.
Daenerys smiled.
Perhaps this was the relaxation she needed.
She had a rough morning; she had another run-in with her older, violent brother Viserys.
ooOoo
“You dare!” Viserys furiously screamed at her, storming into a field where Daenerys wandered with a longsword in hand.
“You give commands to me?
To me?!” he dismounted his horse, stumbling as he landed.
He was still screaming as he grabbed Daenerys’s throat.
“You do not command the dragon.
I am Lord of the Seven Kingdoms!
I don’t take orders from savages or their sluts!
Do you hear me?!”
*CRACK!*
One of her khalasar, Rakharo, arrived and whipped Viserys, making a sound like thunder, wrapping it around his neck and yanking the self-proclaimed Targaryen king to the ground.
He went sprawling in the grass, stunned and choking.
The Dothraki riders hooted at him as he struggled to free himself.
Ser Jorah and the rest of her khas arrived not long afterwards.
Rakharo looked at Daenerys and rasped a question in Dothraki.
“Rakharo asks if you want him dead, khaleesi,” Irri translated.
“No!” Daenerys exclaimed.
“Rakharo says you should take an ear, to teach respect.”
“Please, please, don’t hurt him,” Daenerys pleaded.
“Tell him I don’t want my brother harmed.”
Rakharo, visibly confused, relented and released his grip on Viserys.
In his rage, Viserys quickly rose to his feet to look at Jorah Mormont, coughing as air found its way back into his lungs.
“Kill these Dothraki dogs!” he screamed at Jorah.
“I am your King!”
Jorah, however, turned his gaze to Daenerys instead.
“Shall we return to the khalasar, khaleesi?”
Viserys gaped at him, and sat down in the dirt.
His eyes were full of poison as they rode away.
But when he reached for his horse, Rakharo pulled Viserys’s horse away.
“You walk,” he said in the Common Tongue.
ooOoo
By the time Viserys came limping back among them, every man, woman, and child in the camp would know him for a walker.
There were no secrets in the khalasar.
She gave the silver over to the slaves for grooming and entered her tent.
It was cool and dim beneath the silk.
As she let the door flap close behind her, Dany saw a finger of dusty red light reach out to touch her dragon’s eggs across the tent.
For an instant a thousand droplets of scarlet flame swam before her eyes.
She blinked, and they were gone.
One of Daenerys’s handmaidens, Irri, was braiding Daenerys’s hair and teaching her how to speak the Dothraki’s language.
“Yes, khaleesi,” Irri praised her.
The new khaleesi was learning fast.
Daenerys smiled, but stopped when Irri began feeling her breasts.
“What are you doing?” she asked, giggling.
“When was the last time you bled, Khaleesi?” Irri questioned.
Daenerys’s smile faded, and a surprised look soon took its place.
“You have changed, Khaleesi.
It’s a blessing from the Great Stallion.”
She did not recall the last time she bled; which meant only one thing.
Daenerys Targaryen was pregnant.
Once night had fallen, Daenerys was seen intertwined with her husband Khal Drogo in their tent via candlelight.
“Me rakh (It’s a boy),” Daenerys told him.
Drogo was surprised.
“Kifinosi yer nesi?
(How do you know?)”
“Anha sekke nesa (I know),” she smiled.
At the Small Council chambers…
“It’s the Hand’s tournament that’s causing all this trouble, my lords,” complained Janos Slynt, the Commander of the City Watch.
Daveth sat at the front, listening to the complaints being made.
He had clearly anticipated the arrival of so many guests and made all the necessary seating arrangements, but it clearly didn’t stop uninvited dignitaries from trying to make their way into the city.
The City Watch of King’s Landing is the law-enforcement institution responsible for the safety and security of the capital city of the Seven Kingdoms.
Consisting of more than 2,000 men, each Watchman is more colloquially known as a “Gold Cloak” because of the gold-colored cape he wears.
The kingdom pays the City Watch salaries, but unlike other organizations in the Seven Kingdoms, these soldiers swear no allegiance.
“The King’s tournament,” Eddard winced, correcting him.
“I assure you the Hand wants no part of it.”
“Call it what you will, Lord Stark, ser,” Janos continued, “the city is packed with people and more flooding in every day.
Last night we had a tavern riot, a brothel fire, three stabbings and a drunken horse race down the Street of Sisters.”
“Dreadful,” Varys shuddered.
“Yet clearly more and more incidents have been pouring in ever since the King decided to hold this tournament.
Tell me, Commander Slynt, did any of your men mention other unfortunate mishaps occurring across the city?” Daveth asked.
Janos nodded.
“Yes, my Prince.
This cursed heat has half the city in a fever to start.
Six of my men reported a drowning, a rape and robberies beyond count.
One even mentioned finding a woman’s head in the Great Sept of Baelor, floating in the rainbow pool.
No one seems to know how it got there or who it belongs to.”
Daveth’s uncle, Lord Renly Baratheon, however, was less sympathetic.
“If you can’t keep the King’s peace, perhaps the City Watch should be commanded by someone who can.”
Stout, jowly Janos Slynt puffed himself up like an angry frog, his bald pate reddening.
“Mind your manners, Uncle Renly,” Daveth immediately rebuffed.
As ever, his father King Robert had not troubled himself to attend the council session, so it fell to both his Hand and heir to speak for him.
“Commander Slynt is merely performing his duties, yet there’s only so much he can do when there’s this many people from across the realm coming in.
His men are stretched too thin; not even Aegon the Conqueror could keep the peace.”
Renly and Daveth exchanged glances.
Daveth, meanwhile, returned his attention to Janos.
“The commander of the City Watch will disregard the Master of Laws’ rude comment,” he said.
Janos seemed to relax a bit.
“I need more men,” he requested.
“How many do you need?” Eddard asked, leaning forward.
“Any you can spare, Lord Hand.”
“You’ll get 50,” Eddard told him.
“Lord Baelish will see it paid for.”
“I will?” Littlefinger said.
Daveth looked at Petyr.
“You are the Master of Coin in service to the King, are you not?”
Eddard joined in.
“You found money for a champion’s purse, you can find money to keep the peace,” he said before turning back to Janos.
“I’ll also give you 20 of my household guards until the crowds have left.”
“Thank you, my Lord Hand, ser,” Janos said, bowing.
“They will be put to good use.”
When the Commander had taken his leave, Eddard Stark turned to the rest of the council.
As if the expense and trouble were not irksome enough, all and sundry insisted on salting Eddard’s wound by calling it “the Hand’s tourney,” as if he were the cause of it.
And Robert honestly seemed to think he should feel honored!
“The sooner this is over, the better,” he exclaimed.
“The realm prospers from such events, my lord,” Varys said.
“They give the great a chance at glory, and the lowly a respite from their woes.”
“And every inn in the city is full and the whores are walking bow-legged,” Petyr added.
“At least we’re fortunate my brother Stannis is not with us.
Remember the time he proposed to outlaw brothels?” Renly laughed.
“Robert asked him if perhaps he’d like to outlaw eating, shitting, and breathing while he was at it.
If truth be told, I oftentimes wonder how Stannis ever got that ugly daughter of his.
He goes to his marriage bed like a man marching to a battlefield, with a grim look in his eyes and a determination to do his duty.”
Both Daveth and Eddard did not join the laughter.
“Sometimes I wonder what would make Uncle Stannis leave for Dragonstone so abruptly,” Daveth mentioned.
“Do you think he intends to end his visit and resume his seat on this council?” Eddard asked.
“It’s difficult to say.
Now… if there’s nothing else, my lords?”
No one else said anything more.
“This heat,” Grand Maester Pycelle complained as he stood up.
“On days like this, I envy you northerners and your summer snows.
Until tomorrow, my lord.”
As the council members were all leaving, Eddard stopped Daveth.
“Daveth,” he called out, causing the Crown Prince to stop in his tracks.
“A moment, if you will?”
Daveth looked at the Hand of the King before making his way over.
“You wanted to speak to me, Lord Hand?”
“I’ve been hoping to talk to you about Jon Arryn.”
Daveth frowned slightly.
“What about him?” he asked.
“What I meant is, do you remember what Jon wanted specifically the night before he died?”
“Ah.
Well…” he placed his hand beneath his chin, thinking about the night before Jon Arryn died.
“He did mention something… A book, if I’m not mistaken,” he said.
“A book?
What book?”
“I believe the name of it was The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms.
Last I checked it was in Grand Maester Pycelle’s quarters.
If you’d like to read it, I can have him fetch it for you.”
Eddard shook his head.
“That won’t be necessary.
I’ll go speak to him myself,” he remarked as he left to see Pycelle.
Daveth, now watching Eddard leave, had a series of questions floating through his mind.
‘Why would he ask about that?’ he pondered.
‘Did Lord Arryn…?
No, don’t even think such thoughts, Daveth Baratheon.
You have enough on your plate right now and not a moment of leisure time.’
Daveth shook his head and left the Small Council chambers, recomposing himself.
“I’ve got a tournament to compete in,” he muttered under his breath.
“But first… I must tend to the gift’s arrival.”
At the Tower of the Hand…
Sansa Stark and Septa Mordane were bowing and sewing.
Sansa wore a flowery purple dress and her hair was put up into a bird’s nest like the rest of the southern ladies of court, only partially leaving her neck exposed with long strands being let down sometimes.
“You wear your hair like a real southern lady now,” Mordane complimented.
“Well, why shouldn’t I?” Sansa replied sarcastically.
“We’re in the south.”
“It’s important to remember where you come from.
I’m not sure your mother would like these new styles.”
“My mother isn’t from the North.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Why do you care?” she asked rudely.
“Do you even have hair under there?”
Mordane frowned.
“Yes.
I have hair.”
“I’ve never seen it.”
“Would you like to?”
“No.
Where are you from anyway, the north or the south?”
“I come from a very small village in—”
“Oh, wait.
I just realized… I don’t care.”
“Sansa—!” Mordane scolded.
“Septa,” Sansa coldly replied.
“Now you are being rude.”
“Indeed, she is,” a voice called out.
Sansa frowned, wanting to shout at whomever said that, but her eyes widened in surprise, embarrassment and shame as Daveth Baratheon had been standing in the doorway, leaning his back against the wall with his arms crossed.
Judging by the look on his face, Sansa felt that Daveth had been listening to every word of their conversation.
Regardless, Sansa’s eyes slowly lit up as Prince Daveth walked in.
Both women stood up.
“My prince,” Mordane and Sansa greeted.
“Septa, my lady,” Daveth responded as he looked at Mordane.
“Could you give us a moment?”
Mordane bowed once more and left the room, leaving the two of them alone.
Daveth returned his attention to Sansa, inhaling deeply.
“I apologize for my brother Joffrey’s behavior these past few weeks,” he began.
“He tends to act spoiled and rotten if he doesn’t normally get his way.
But it’s only right that I acknowledge whatever misgivings occurred on my part as well.
It was never my intention to cause my lady such great distress.”
Sansa allowed herself to smile.
“There’s nothing to forgive, my prince.
You did what you thought was best.”
‘If only the others saw it that way, little dove,’ Daveth thought.
“To make it up to you,” he continued, “I brought you something.
Think of it as an early engagement present.”
Sansa looked puzzled.
What could he be talking about?
And what was this “gift” he spoke of?
Daveth turned back to the door and gave a sharp whistle.
Sansa heard footsteps, clawed footsteps, approaching, and her eyes widened at what she saw.
A canine, much larger than the average dog, had bright golden eyes and thick grey fur.
“Look familiar?”
Sansa felt her eyes tear up and her lip tremble.
“L… Lady…?” she asked in disbelief, her voice cracking.
The wolf recognized the voice of her mistress and ran towards Sansa, who leaned down to embrace the animal with a big hug.
Lady licked Sansa and whined happily; she missed her mistress terribly and was happy to see her again.
“But how?
I thought… I thought father…”
“You really believe everything you hear?” Daveth shook his head.
“That body you saw on the Kingsroad wasn’t your direwolf’s; it belonged to an ordinary wolf.”
Sansa took a moment to let the reality of this stunning revelation sink in; Eddard Stark did not actually kill Lady, but another wolf had taken her place.
“But will the King…?”
“You let me worry about father.
From now on, be sure to keep your pet somewhere hidden.
There are plenty of eyes and ears everywhere in King’s Landing.”
Sansa looked concerned, but nodded all the same.
“Thank you, my sweet prince,” she thanked again.
“This is a wonderful gift.”
“There’s something else,” he said as he pulled a necklace from his pocket; one that gleamed with gold and was carved into a lion.
“It’s beautiful.
Like the one your mother wears.”
“There are only two like it until this afternoon.
Mother, Myrcella… and now you.
May I?”
Sansa nodded and turned around, allowing Daveth to put it on her, as acceptance.
“I really don’t know what to say,” Sansa smiled.
“Well, this makes you the third to wear such a gift.
You’ll be my Queen one day; it’s only fitting that you should look the part,” Daveth replied.
“Lords and ladies from all over the Seven Kingdoms will come here once we marry.
From the Last Hearth in the North to the Salt Shore of the south.
I mean it.
You are my lady now, and I will stop at nothing to keep you safe; from this day, until my last day.”
Hands still entangled, Daveth noticed an almost leading look in Sansa’s eyes.
Instinctively, Daveth cupped her face and stepped forward and pressed his lips to hers.
Briefly surprised, Sansa closed her eyes and kissed him back.
All cares forgotten, all that mattered right now was this.
As the two pulled away, Sansa looked dreamily at Daveth.
Before heading out the door, Daveth looked at Sansa.
“Will you walk with me?”